An Inopportune Monday

For death tasted so sweet,

As the day of my lover’s funeral finally arrived.

The wails of the dead greet me,

The smooth trail of the funeral hearse,

And the chilling, biting air,

Flavors my mood, bon appetite!

I have never felt more alive!

“Your husband has recently passed, and yet, you celebrate?”

Oh, you must know the cause,

For it would be rude to leave you in the dark,

A closed casket to the world,

Unbeknownst of time and change…

“Ha, ha… ironic. So how did it start?”

So, it all started with a pair of shoes–

“Shoes, really?”

Oh, posh, the disdain

On your face is not needed.

 Not any pair of shoes,

A special pair that pierced my heart

With its silver heel,

Thrusting through flesh and muscle,

And leaving quite a slippery mess on the imported Persian rugs

Of my once celestial bedroom.

Crimson against sensuous red,

My heart broke over a pair of shoes.


Well, I guess I am getting ahead of myself…

“Yes, truly. Begin with the day of the death.”

It all started….

I came home at three, oh what a tease!

Normally, I come home at four, you see,

On Mondays I visit my dear friend Charlotte,

We sip mimosas and switch to Chardonnay

As the big hand hits 1

And the little hand follows loyally.

Oh, how Charlie and I laughed,

With such innocence, you see,

For we would have never laughed so hard,

If we knew Death’s door was wide open

Beckoning us, one at a time–

“Go on–”

Well, this lovely interlude ended early,

Inopportune, you would think,
As if vindictive Fate impatiently started to pace,

Charlie’s dreadful husband had a heart attack

And she had to attend to that worrisome man.

How horrible he was,

 with his jowls and sweaty skin, and

He never shaves, I swear!

That man looks like a cross of a bear and a hillbilly.

Ha! Imagine that.

“You’re becoming sidetracked–”

Well as Charlie went to the hospital

To pretend to love her rich husband,

I came home early, amused

As I believed that I could entertain my husband,

Maybe even attempt to be kind to him–

For he has angered me recently.

As dreadful as Charlie’s husband, you see,

Forever complaining about work

And never paying enough attention to me.

How could he not want to ravish me daily?

I am young and limber,

Fashionable and charming,

I am the bright North Star,

That men flock to,

Eyes ablaze with hope and fear.

But I am a compassionate creature,

Even if my own mother won’t attest to that.

So I came to our home

Expecting to forgive my husband.

But I did not expect to find him fucking my sister…


Oh, my sister,

She is the bane of my existence.

Even before she decided to obliterate my marriage

Incredibly homely looking lingerie

Greeted me immediately,

And liquor bottles littered haphazardly

gracing my imported Persian rugs.

Ha! Thwarted by a fat, ugly, fake–Victoria Secret-clad

younger sister.

“I know this is hard Mrs. Rose–”

No, no longer am I labeled a wife,

For I have lost both sister and husband that

Inopportune Monday,

That was suppose to be filled with

Cute waiters and heavy-lidded mascara.

You may call me Denise–

Denise Larissa Rochester.

“Pardon, Ms. Rochester, I did not mean you no offense. But may you continue?”

Yes, yes, my story of woes and betrayals!

Oh how much pain,

Stricken by the lightening bolt of betrayal,
I stood stock still as they continued to gallivant

On my marriage bed.

Oh, how my husband looked so happy.

Face flushed with mirth and pleasure–

Almost boyish in its joy,

The shards of my heart,

Broken and ravaged, like delicate glass,

Pierced my lungs,

For I could no longer breath,

Each breathe a struggle,

As my vision dimmed…

“I know this is hard for you… Denise but I need to know that happens next. You told the police that there was a fight–”

Passion, oh, passion!

A shot of adrenaline raced through me,

Like a prized fighter,

Fed on blood and screams of his opponents,

I stepped in that room,

Not a weathered housewife,

Beaten down by her husband’s crime of passion

But an Amazon warrior,

Seeking revenge.

“But–Ms. Denise… You stated–”

–I took off my shoes,

An anniversary gift from my husband

–The irony is not unnoticed–

And I continued


The blood, oh how much blood!

She screamed you know, but only for a moment,

I slashed her throat with the edge of the heel,

Her screams were lost in the blood

That bubbled to her lips

And her blonde hair,

Which I always envied for its tendency to curl attractively,

Became drenched in her lifeblood,

Becoming an unbecoming shade of–

“Denise–what you’re admitting to–You must come with me–”

But I am not done!

My husband stood stock still,

As I had done before,

As he watched his lover die in his sweaty arms,

Scratch marks on his forearms,

And little indentions from crooked teeth.

Why, he had said, how could you, he screamed.

Why, I said, how could you, I screamed.

I killed him next,

Stabbing the other heel in his eye.

Oh, how he screeched,

Like a legendary banshee–

Come to think of it,

Weren’t they those women,

Who were like sirens,

who used their voices to lure men to their deaths?

Then maybe instead of an Amazon,

Or a Boadicea,

I became a banshee or siren,

Laughing in delight as my husband scrambled and writhed–

“Ms. Rochester come with me now! You are under arrest–”

Not until I am finished!

Not until I am finished!

Not until I am goddamm finished!

I licked their blood from my shoe,

A mix of sweet cherries and fine wine, like

A Roman Empress

Chilling and lovely as she watches men die with great cheer.

I slit his throat like a pagan sacrifice,

For the pleasure was too grand–

“Back up! I need back up! Suspect on the loose at 323 Hemingway Avenue–Fuck she jumped the fence–”

I am Banshee, I am Siren!

Never again will I submit,

For I will kill with pleasure

If chains are your choice of welcome.

For a funeral is lovely,

As faces become gray–

The color between white and black

Good and evil is represented.

Gray eyes and gray hearts,

I laugh and rejoice as they mourn,

Revel as tears stain the air.

“Fuck! Holy Fuck–She is about to jump! Denise no–”


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